The Last Men in Europe
by Mikel Midnight
Summary: George Smith, hailing from the England of Orwell's 1984, has on a mission to Burma. Will he survive his encounter with the official hero of his country, Captain Airstrip-One?


George Smith looked out over the deck. He was a middle-aged man of an unhealthy pallor which was not improved by the constant rocking of the ship. His mission on behalf of the Ministry of Truth had left him feeling generally hopeless. He was not cut out or trained for espionage, and whatever forged documents had allowed him to enter into that section of Eastasia formerly known as Burma had involved maneuverings beyond his ken. Burma at least seemed to be suspended in a vague amoral lawlessness, doubtless tolerated by the Eastasian rulers because it functioned as a vacation spot ... even death-worshippers needed recreation, he mused. He had hoped the sun and heat of the island would be a welcome respite from the pervasive grey of England, but it had only left him feeling dazed and broiled.

He overheard a remark, "That's the boy that's being sent home." His slump accentuated, until he felt a hand on each of his shoulders. He sensed the presence of a pair of recent acquaintances, Kenneth Miles and H Lewis Allways; he'd surmised given the latter's reluctance to expand on his given name that the initial was for Henry, perhaps a deliberate act of modesty not seeking to draw attention to any appellative connection to Big Brother, who had begun life as Henry Spencer. He'd known of other educated Henrys who had made the same decision, although the name proliferated amongst the proles, who considered it an honor to their leader. Both men were muscular and lean, tanned from years spent on the island, though Kenneth was light-haired while Lewis was dark.

Smith turned his head to discern which of the two had spoken, and squinted as he inadvertently looked directly into the sun. The pulse of light down his optic nerves irritated his sinuses, and he found himself brought back to the sun and heat of Burma, and the lingering heat of peppers on his tongue.

Back at the plantation, Ma Yi had hovered over him like a solicitous parent as he'd eaten, hoping perhaps that the spiciness of the food she spread out before him would bring color to his characteristic British paleness. Perhaps his decision to depart the plantation on a weekend had been a tactical error; although no party had been given in honor of his leaving (and he'd have considered the very thought monstrous, even if he'd thought he'd made enough of an impression on his hosts to merit such a treatment), his departure plans had been known and disseminated, and it had been expected that he would participate in the habitual weekend festivities and express his regrets, entertaining the celebrants with anecdotes intended to leave behind the impression that he was a jolly fellow who would be much-missed. He had failed to do so, and in fact the planters had seemed offended that he had still been sober near the midnight hour.

After breakfast the next morning, he had nevertheless sought to flatter Ma Yi. His bags packed and loaded, he thought to give a final walkabout of the plantation, marking favorite spots in his memory. He slipped on the sandals that the plantation had provided, and was immediately rewarded by the vague feeling of something distasteful, a slimy wetness at the bottom of his feet as if a snail had crawled across them in the night. He chose to ignore it as best he could, in order to demonstrate the characteristic British stiff upper lip as well as to avoid parting thoughts being that of a complainer.

His mission in the area was primarily census-taking, cataloguing the Oceanic expatriates. His functional job in Recdep was completely unrelated, and he wondered at his superiors' choice in sending him. His chief feeling as he played the peripatetic over the Burmese countryside had been boredom, despite the novelty of the surroundings. Too far from their homeland to be concerned with the Oceanic authorities, but too ethnically distinct from the Burmese to attempt living incognito, they lived openly under the noses of the Eastasian authorities.

Perhaps, he thought, he was simply too British to properly appreciate the surroundings. His room in the plantation lacked the basic technological comforts he'd been entitled to as a member of the Outer Party; he missed the conveniences of the city, the uncomplicated sweetness of the chocorat, even the omnipresence of the telescreen. And yet ... despite the simple austerity that he shrank from ... he could not avoid the constant feeling that it had something his life lacked. It spurred him to change his habits. In the early days of his stay, he had spent as much of his time as possible in the plantation's sitting room, listening to worn records on the gramophone and receiving visitations from girls (of which there was no shortage) who were interested in a certain sort of financial transaction with a visiting foreigner. More lately, he had been staying amidst the dust and squalor and piled-up whisky bottles of his room, reading books borrowed from the Rangoon Library and also (curiously) listening to anecdotes related in an endless stream of broken English by Ma Yi. His ventures into the social sphere had ceased to involve the girls and transitioned instead to conversations with a pair of expats who had apparently set up a permanent residence at the plantation, Kenneth and Lewis.

He knew that his association with them bore certain social consequences on the plantation. They evidently in their long years there had abstained from receiving many of the expected feminine entertainments, of the sort he himself had indulged in so often, the early days of his arrival. He'd walked passed a pair of the planters gossiping about them. "What about women?" Their laughter filled him with indignation. He vaguely perceived that the pair of bachelors stood for something better than their surroundings, something classical and fine which rendered unsurprising their apparent celibacy. The suggestion that there was something untoward about the mens' relationship was nothing short of revolting.

He was brought out of his reverie by the sound of horn in the distance; a tourists' greeting from another ship of the same line, passing in the opposite direction. Shouts and cheers arose from both desks, waving of hands and handkerchiefs. Amidst the forced jollity he heard a shouted phrase drifting over from the passers-by: "You're going the wrong way!" Unaccountably, the thought of getting home filled him with dread. He knew he had inherent proclivities towards oldthinking, proclivities which had, if anything, been accentuated on this trip. He would be closely watched on his return, and if his attention strayed too often in apparent nostalgia or preoccupation with ownlife, the prospect of unemployment would loom high. The idea of losing what small privileges he was entitled to in the Outer Party, and of being relegated to a life amongst the least of the proles, was nothing he cared to face.

"Don't live for last year's capers," Kenneth grinned at him, misunderstanding his unease, thinking it a simple vacationer's nostalgia. The man settled his back against the deck railing. "You've been a good companion these last few weeks. Made us long for home."

Smith smiled back faintly. "Do you have homes to go back to? I thought you'd settled in Burma permanently."

Lewis shrugged. "We're resourceful. I know you think you're awful square, but we'd wondered if there were any decent people left in our home country. Though I suppose even Big Brother couldn't wipe out common English decency."

Kenneth's smile grew momentarily frigid, and his head twitched in an almost imperceptible sign of disapproval. Lewis shrugged again, and continued. "It's getting on to the afternoon, and I'm feeling dry. Shall we head to the bar, gents?" He took Smith by one of his elbows, and Kenneth laughed and took the other, practically pressganging him. He allowed himself to be jollied along, feeling that it was his responsibility to fulfill the bachelors' perceptions of him, in some sense.

The trio entered the bar, and joined the swell of people who were congregating in the room. Smith caught the sounds of laughter and fragments of conversation as they passed through on the way to the bar. He knew that sometimes he could get along very well, lounge against a bar in just the right manner, chip in when everybody bursts out singing a popular song or "Oceania 'Tis for Thee", and otherwise fulfill the requirements for civilised discourse. But at other times, including today, he felt overwhelmed with gaucherie and shyness, possibly by comparison to his more dashing compatriots of the day.

Kenneth ordered a round of whiskey for the three of them. "George, George. You'll be back home soon, with plenty of time to be responsible and abstemious."

Lewis chuckled. "Don't play mother hen to our boy. He can make his own decisions. Can't you, George?"

George attempted a smile. He never knew how to respond to their casual banter, and often felt as if he was being tested by them, or subtly interrogated. "One can't be a member in good standing of the Outer Party and be completely childish."

Lewis wrinkled his nose as if George had entered into a discourse about bodily functions, and Kenneth simply sighed. "You can be a charming and friendly fellow, so long as you don't bring up work," Lewis said. "That story you told us once about throwing the book out of the porthole, that had us in stitches."

George felt the pleasant burn of the whiskey down his throat, and allowed the sedative effect as well as Lewis' compliment to relax him somewhat. "I thought you wanted to hear about England ... that's what you two kept interrogating me on when we were I was on my mission to Burma."

"Were we interrogating?" Kenneth's face showed genuine concern. "I'm sorry. You know how nostalgic we expats can get. News from home is like water down the throat of a parched man."

"I prefer the whiskey myself," Lewis grunted, tossing back a shot.

George started to smile more openly now. "I know. I don't have much in the way of family back home ... just a cousin, who also used to work for Recdep, as it happens ... though I haven't kept in touch with him for years. So I was in much the same situation."

"And it's not as if the Eastasian official philosophy of 'Obliteration of the Self' allowed for much news from the outside world," Kenneth continued. "Though it's at least more erudite and poetic than the Party's propaganda."

"I did read some of their texts at the library," George mused. "They're quite ancient, aren't they?"

Lewis shrugged again as seemed to be his wont. "The originals are," he said thoughtfully. "But you can't find those anymore. Of course, I've only read them in translation ... back in the day when books like that we're easily available. But today they'd just be considered 'oldthinking,' wouldn't they?"

"Progress is important," George said.

"Frankly, I'm hoping England has progressed since we left," Kenneth said. "It does sound like things have loosened up a bit."

"It had been a balmy winter, I can tell you that much. Lots of fresh fruit around, when you can find it, oranges and lemons." He pulled out a copy of the ship's daily menu, running his finger down the available options. "And look here ... plum cake for dessert."

At his words, his friends erupted into broad laughter. He looked between the two of them, bemused. Kenneth patted him on the shoulder. "Sorry George, you stumbled into a bit of a private joke between us, I'm afraid."

George looked lost, feeling that he'd committed some social gaffe. In his mind his inability to shine socially was indistinguishable from his lack of 'grit' and consequent failure to get on, both of which explained why he felt that would likely be forever relegated to Outer Party status. Whatever self-deprecations he would have continued to indulge in were interrupted by a quick series of popping noises from outside the ship. A peculiarly accented voice was heard from the outside, slightly tinny as if spoken through a microphone. "All guests to leave their rooms and public areas and assemble on deck," followed by a resumption of the small explosive bursts.

Kenneth's right hand quickly moved across his torso as if reaching for something at his waist, though whatever this gesture was meant to represent was interrupted by Lewis' hand placed on his forearm, and a cautious look which seemed the twin of Kenneth's earlier rebuke. Any querying look or comment from George was silenced as he felt a piercing pain through his left chest area. The room shifted uncomfortably before his eyes, and he staggered forward off his bar stool, clutching at his chest in pain.

Lewis moved quickly, stopping his fall before he landed on the floor. "Lord, I think you'd overdose if you knew what's going down," he muttered. He felt George's pulse. "His heart is racing, but regular, it must be a nervous reaction."

Kenneth eyed the other passengers as they anxiously filtered out of the room, frightened voices replacing the earlier tone of levity. "Let's get him back to his cabin. We're not doctors and it sounds like we need to worry about more people than just him."

The three of them stumbled through the hallways of the ship, maneuvering their way opposite the crowd. George felt one of the pair of them reach inside his jacket for his key, glancing at the room number on the tag before continuing on to his room and depositing him on to his bunk. He gasped as each move sent a piercing pain through his heart.

Kenneth drew the shades over the room portal window, eyeing the exterior as armed man began to clamber aboard the deck, herding the terrified passengers into groups. "My name is Abdul Kazir," said the voice which had made itself known earlier. "You will not be harmed, if you cooperate. Please to surrender your room keys, wallets and valuables to my men."

George was lost in his sea of pain; all he saw was a flash of blue, a deeper blue than in the portal window, which caught the corner of his eye. The words of Kenneth's, "Give me steel," meant nothing to him, before he was left alone in his room.

The telephone rang.

Outside, a pair of men clad in blue, their chests emblazoned with heraldic imagery, ascended onto the deck. The light-haired man with the sword and the unicorn herald impaled the first pirate who waited outside the door, and he swept through the others like a wild beast. One of the pirates positioned a rifle, aimed at his companion's chest, "You're not even going to come armed?" he said with a sneer. The dark-haired man with the lion herald leapt through the air with impossible speed. "All I need is God and my right," he said, his fist striking the man down effortlessly.

Inside, George stumbled off his bed, crawling through the pain to answer for the phone. He hand reached for it, knocking it off the countertop onto the ground. The receiver fell to the side, and he heard a man's voice. "George? George, are you there?" It sounded concerned.

The pain intensified. "I ... who ... ?"

"George, this is O'Brien," said the voice through the receiver.

"O .. O'Brien?" He vaguely recognised the name of the Inner Party member to whom he'd upsubbed several documents.

"I know you're in pain, George. Listen to me: 'Some brave Apollo, save your shores'"

He gasped in pain once more, and looked down in horror as what appeared to be a golden eye appeared over his heart. It began to glow, a golden aura which surrounded his body, coalescing into a deep blue and red uniform, a helmet and visor covering his face. "On patrol, not-member of non-existent Thought Police O'Brien," the new man said into the receiver before he ended the call, and then he glanced towards the wall of the room, enhanced perceptions revealing to him the battlefield outside. He soared upwards, crashing through the ceiling.

Part of his brain recognised the visages of the two men who had once protected the Isles under the names Mr. Lion and Mr. Unicorn, before the details excised themselves from the unpersons they had since been declared. Aboard a hovering airship, a turbaned man watched as his men engaged in desperate battle with the pair. He noticed the man who had joined him in the sky. "So Captain Airstrip-One, so you come to me...but it is I who make the rules!" He reached upwards and pulled down a wand attached to an insulated chord, from which emitted a bolt of white lightning.

The electricity was met by Captain Airstrip-One's force field, which began to spit and crackle. "It tickles," he said, before the now glowing Corpsman shot like a bullet through the center of the airship. Its fuel tanks ignited, and Abdul Kazir screamed his impotent fury as it began to immolate.

Captain Airstrip-One hovered lower now, as Kazir's leaderless men fell to panic, and began to flee the blue-clad warriors in earnest, seeking out the ship's lifeboats or simply diving off the edge of the deck. Mr. Unicorn raised his sword warily at the newcomer.

"Ungood to him who ungood thinks," said the Corpsman, with uncanny speed sending his hands slicing through the warrior's necks, decapitating them. The passengers witnessed the one-sided battle in stunned silence as blood splattered over the ship, the men's heads rolling over into the ocean.

Captain Airstrip-One ascended once more into the sky, and raised his right arm in a salute, his voice raised in song:

"Oceania! Oceania! Oceania, 'tis for thee!

Every deed, every thought, 'tis for thee!"

* * *

The title comes from "The Last Man in Europe," an original title for "1984." Some aspects of the plot are from "A Smoking-room Story," an unwritten Orwell novel, an outline for which has also been briefly quoted. Another unfinished novel, "The Quick and the Dead," had as an early alternate title "The Lion and the Unicorn."


End file.
